I said, “I always thought the visual arts had grown out of that long ago. Especially in your mode.”
Munroe scowled. “I'm not talking about art. I'm talking about the entire dominant culture.”
“Come on! There is no ‘dominant culture’ anymore. The filter is mightier than the broadcaster.” At least, that was the net-swoon line; I still wasn’t sure I’d bought it.
Munroe hadn’t. “Very Zen. Try exporting Australian medical biotech to Stateless, and you’ll soon find out exactly who’s in control.”
I had no answer to that.
He said, “Don’t you ever get tired of living in a society which talks about itself, relentlessly—and usually lies? Which defines everything worthwhile—tolerance, honesty, loyalty, fairness—as ‘uniquely Australian'? Which pretends to encourage diversity—but can’t ever stop babbling about its ‘national identity'? Don’t you ever get sick of the endless parade of buffoons who claim the authority to speak on your behalf: politicians, intellectuals, celebrities, commentators—defining and characterizing you in every detail… from your ’distinctive Australian sense of humor’ right down to your fucking ‘collective subconscious iconography'… who are all, simply, liars and thieves?”
I was taken aback for a moment, but on reflection, this was a recognizable description of the mainstream political and academic culture. Or if not the mainstream, at least the loudest. I shrugged. “Every country has some level of parochial bullshit like that going on, somewhere. The US is almost as bad. But I hardly notice it anymore—least of all at home. I suppose I’ve just learned to tune it out, most of the time.”
“I envy you, then. I never could.”
The tram slid on, displaced dust hissing softly. Munroe had a point: nationalists—political and cultural—who claimed to be the voice of their nation could disenfranchise those they “represented” just as effectively as sexists who claimed to be the voice of their sex. A handful of people pretending to speak for forty million—or five billion—would always wield disproportionate power, merely by virtue of making the claim.
So what was the solution? Move to Stateless? Become asex? Or just stick your head in a Balkanized corner of the net, and try to believe that none of it mattered?
Munroe said, “I would have thought that the flight from Sydney was enough to make anyone want to leave for good. Physical proof of the absurdity of nations.”
I laughed drily. “Almost. Being petty and vindictive with the East Timorese is understandable; imagine dirtying the bayonets of our business partners for all those years, and then having the temerity to turn around and take us to court. What the problem is with Stateless, though, I have no idea. None of the EnGeneUity patents were Australian-owned, were they?”
“No.”
“So what’s the big deal? Even Washington doesn’t go out of its way to punish Stateless quite so… comprehensively.”
Munroe said, “I do have one theory.”
“Yeah?”
“Think about it. What’s the biggest lie the political and cultural ruling class tells itself? Where’s the greatest disparity between image and truth? What are the attributes which any self-respecting Professional Australian boasts about the most—and possesses the least?”
“If this is a cheap Freudian joke, I'm going to be very disappointed.”
“Suspicion of authority. Independence of spirit. Nonconformity. So what could they possibly find more threatening than an island full of anarchists?”
13
We walked north from the terminus, across a plane of marbled gray-green, in places still imprinted with faint hints of stubby branched tubing: coral from the shores of a decade ago, incompletely digested. Knowing the time scale made the sight curiously shocking; it was a bit like stumbling across fossils of distinctive forties artifacts—clunky old-model notepads, quaint shoes which had been alpha fashion in living memory—converted into nothing but mineralized outlines. I thought I could feel the rock yielding beneath my feet more than the dense, cured paving of the city, but we left no visible imprints behind us. I paused and crouched to touch the ground, wondering if it would be palpably moist; it wasn’t, but there was probably a plasticized skin beneath the surface to limit evaporation.
In the distance, a group of twenty or so people were gathered around a gantry several meters high, with a large motorized winch beside it. Nearby was a small green bus with big, balloon-tired wheels. The gantry sprouted half a dozen bright orange awnings, and I could hear them snapping in the breeze. Orange cable stretched from the winch to a pulley suspended from the gantry, then dropped straight down— presumably into a hole in the ground, concealed by the circle of spectators.
I said, “They’re being lowered into some kind of maintenance shaft?”
“That’s right.”
“What a charming custom. Welcome to Stateless, tired and hungry traveler… now check out our sewers.”
Munroe snorted. “Wrong.”
As we drew nearer, I could see that everyone in the group was gazing intently at the hole beneath the gantry. A couple of people glanced our way briefly, and one woman raised a hand in a tentative greeting. I returned the gesture, and she smiled nervously, then turned back to the hidden entrance.
I whispered (though we were barely within earshot), “They look like they’re at a mine disaster. Waiting to identify the bodies as they’re raised to the surface.”
“It’s always tense. But… be patient.”
From a distance, I’d thought people were just randomly, casually dressed, but close-up it was clear that they were mostly in swimming costumes, though some wore T-shirts as well. A few were in short-limbed wetsuits. Some peoples’ hair looked distinctively disheveled; one man’s was visibly still wet.
“So what are they diving into? The water supply?” Ocean water was desalinated in specialized pools out on the reefs, and the fresh water pumped inland to supplement recycled waste.
Munroe said, “That’d be a challenge. None of the water arteries are thicker than a human arm.”
I stopped a respectful distance from the group, feeling very much an intruder. Munroe went ahead and gently squeezed his way into the outer circle; no one seemed to mind, or to pay either of us much attention. It finally struck me that the awnings overhead were flapping and shuddering out of all proportion to the gentle wind from the east. I moved closer and caught the edge of a strong, cool breeze emerging from the tunnel itself, carrying a stale damp mineral odor.
Peering over people’s shoulders, I could see that the mouth of the tunnel was capped with a knee-high structure like a small well, built of dark reef-rock or heavy-duty biopolymer, with an iris seal which had been wrenched open. The winch, a few meters away, seemed monstrous now—far too large and industrial-looking to be involved in any light-hearted sport. The cable was thicker than I’d expected; I thought of trying to estimate its total length, but the sides of the drum concealed the number of layers wrapped around it. The motor itself was silent except for the hiss of air across magnetic bearings, but the cable squeaked against itself as it spooled onto the drum, and the gantry creaked as the cable slid over the pulley.
No one spoke. It didn’t seem like the time to start asking questions.
Suddenly I heard a gasping sound, almost a sobbing. There was a buzz of excitement, and everyone craned forward expectantly. A woman emerged from the tunnel, clinging tightly to the cable, scuba tanks strapped to her back, face mask pulled up onto her forehead. She was wet, but not dripping—so the water had to be some way down.